The Eyes, They Burn
by incense and peppermints
Summary: Dallas Winston can say what he wants, but she never once cheated. Oneshot.


Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns the Outsiders.

Warning: Sensitive content and graphic language. Not so much I feel it needs an M rating, but if you feel it does, totally flexible. Let me know, and I'll gladly bump it.

* * *

She thought she was in love once.

She tells herself she still is as she strolls down the hallway, braving the stares of her peers. The eyes, they burn, even worse than the venomous words from snickering lips.

The innate sense someone is watching looms. Everywhere she goes, all eyes on her _and_ certain parts of her. They stare, they gawk, they admire, and she'd be lying if she said she never wanted that attention. She did, and she knows it too. Once upon a time, she stole her mother's filthy magazine and devoured it page to page. At the ripe age of ten, she decided she wanted to be just like a pin up girl; bottle-enhanced blonde hair, curves in all the right places, and eye makeup to make even the prudest girls jealous

_You wanted this, damn it. You wanted this with every breath in your body, and now you got it. Happy?_

No, she ain't happy.

She wouldn't be happy if the bastard woke up with his dick stapled to something. She wouldn't be happy if he broke out of juvie and begged on bended for her forgiveness.

She wouldn't forgive him.

Not now. Not ever.

Not even if he hit he with endless string of compliments. She ain't falling for that shit again.

Words hurt, but anyone could've told her that. She's used to it. Her darling momma knows how to dish it out with the best of them. The insults, they sting, but not as but not as bad as a fragile reputation dangling on its last hinge, a reputation he went and drove straight to the ground with his fat fucking mouth and a tenacity no human being deserves.

All over one fight too.

One stupid little argument, the details of which she can no longer recall, but the aftermath is unscathed. She remembers him kissing her like he meant it, running his fingers through her hair, whispering kind, inviting words in her ears. That passion almost won her over until she realized it was just another harebrained decision made with his dick in mind. He didn't care if he lost her, only cared if he lost her body, so she set out to test him on it, to see if he really meant those things about her being the only girl for him, and that started with turning his advances down.

Of course he lashed out and left. Typical, angry Dallas tantrum. So maybe, _just maybe_ she schemed to get back at him. Maybe she purposefully "talked friendly" with a few other guys, and well, it worked. It worked beautifully, but talking ain't screwing, simple as that.

Still, his vindictive eyes see her with another man, and what does he assume? She slept around.

Why? She ain't sure. Perhaps he does the same behind her back. He knows he can't keep it in his pants, so he assumes she won't do the same… Well, he's wrong. She's never been with anybody else, and much to his dismay, they never went all the way, but still he had the guts to accuse her of cheating on him.

Instead of asking her what happened like a decent human being—she'd have been honest, she'd have told him it was all an act to irritate him—he flips right around and tells his buddies his girl's two-timing.

The rest is history.

Goddamnit, it aggravates her. To this day, it makes her blood boil. She never set out to be loose, to be easy.

_He_ made her that way, and that kind of damage can't be undone when playing field is high school. High school, where everything is everyone's business, and accuracy ain't worth a damn once the word's out.

_Liar. Cheater. Two-timer. _

_Bitch. Skank. Slut. Whore._

Dallas's _Girl_. Dallas's _Woman_. Always Dallas's something. Never just Sylvia. And for a while, that was okay. It was nice to be _his_. Nice to be _somebody's_.

Who knew it'd be more trouble than that small ounce of worth. When he looked her in the eyes and said he loved her, she believed him. When he told her things he'd never said to another living soul, she gloated and boasted all the other girls he'd ever been with simply didn't get him, didn't _understand_ him the way she did, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe being able to see through him was her undoing, being able to see that beneath every shred of his "badass" demeanor was an insecure prick seeking to knock her down to his level.

Well, she was done with him now, done hoping he'd change, _done_ because hoping on that is as futile as hoping her mother'll lay off the vodka and pay rent on time.

Her favorite Aunt Becky always says, "Nobody can make you feel like shit without you lettin' 'em." She tries to live by that rule, and for the most part, she's done pretty damn good, but Dallas … Dallas did a number on her.

She can't dodge the stares.

Can't shed the image.

She can pretend it don't hurt, pretend it don't sting when a sexed up boy whistles in her direction, pretend everything's fine when a stuck up prude yanks her head around to whisper something her _friends_. The very friends who'll spread the word around the school 'til even lunch ladies know.

So smartasses like Steve Randle can spew an infinite string of snide remarks whenever he graces her presence.

So all heads are guaranteed to turn.

To see her.

_Her. _

Every last inch of her body.

She feels like some kind of a goddamned Queen.

Queen of every loose virgin.

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Thanks a billion for reading! I would gladly devour any and all feedback you can give me. :)

(For the record I don't hate Dallas. Just putting that out there... :P)


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